“I wanted to find you, M. Poirot.”
Superintendent1 Sugden had excused himself and gone back into the house. Looking after
him, Hilda said:
“I didn’t know he was with you. I thought he was with Pilar. He seems a nice man, quite
considerate.”
Her voice was pleasant, a low, soothing2 cadence3 to it.
Poirot asked:
“You wanted to see me, you say?”
She inclined her head.
“Yes. I think you can help me.”
“I shall be delighted to do so, madame.”
She said:
“You are a very intelligent man, M. Poirot. I saw that last night. There are things which you
will, I think, find out quite easily. I want you to understand my husband.”
“Yes, madame?”
“I shouldn’t talk like this to Superintendent Sugden. He wouldn’t understand. But you will.”
Poirot bowed. “You honour me, madame.”
Hilda went calmly on:
“My husband, for many years, ever since I married him, has been what I can only describe as
a mental cripple.”
“Ah!”
“When one suffers some great hurt physically4, it causes shock and pain, but slowly it mends,
the flesh heals, the bone knits. There may be, perhaps, a little weakness, a slight scar, but nothing
more. My husband, M. Poirot, suffered a great hurt mentally at his most susceptible5 age. He
adored his mother and he saw her die. He believed that his father was morally responsible for that
death. From that shock he has never quite recovered. His resentment6 against his father never died
down. It was I who persuaded David to come here this Christmas, to be reconciled to his father. I
wanted it—for his sake—I wanted that mental wound to heal. I realize now that coming here was a
mistake. Simeon Lee amused himself by probing into that old wound. It was—a very dangerous
thing to do. . . .”
Poirot said: “Are you telling me, madame, that your husband killed his father?”
“I am telling you, M. Poirot, that he easily might have done so . . . And I will also tell you this
—that he did not! When Simeon Lee was killed, his son was playing the ‘Dead March.’ The wish
to kill was in his heart. It passed out through his fingers and died in waves of sound—that is the
truth.”
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
“And you, madame, what is your verdict on that past drama?”
“You mean the death of Simeon Lee’s wife?”
“Yes.”
Hilda said slowly:
“I know enough of life to know that you can never judge any case on its outside merits. To all
seeming, Simeon Lee was entirely7 to blame and his wife was abominably8 treated. At the same
time, I honestly believe that there is a kind of meekness9, a predisposition to martyrdom which does
arouse the worst instincts in men of a certain type. Simeon Lee would have admired, I think, spirit
and force of character. He was merely irritated by patience and tears.”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“Your husband said last night: ‘My mother never complained.’ Is that true?”
Hilda Lee said impatiently:
“Of course it isn’t! She complained the whole time to David! She laid the whole burden of
her unhappiness on his shoulders. He was too young—far too young to bear all she gave him to
bear!”
Poirot looked thoughtfully at her. She flushed under his gaze and bit her lip.
He said:
“I see.”
She said sharply:
“What do you see?”
He answered:
“I see that you have had to be a mother to your husband when you would have preferred to be
a wife.”
She turned away.
At that moment David Lee came out of the house and along the terrace towards them. He
said, and his voice had a clear joyful10 note in it:
“Hilda, isn’t it a glorious day? Almost like spring instead of winter.”
He came nearer. His head was thrown back, a lock of fair hair fell across his forehead, his
blue eyes shone. He looked amazingly young and boyish. There was about him a youthful
eagerness, a carefree radiance. Hercule Poirot caught his breath. . . .
David said: “Let’s go down to the lake, Hilda.”
She smiled, put her arm through his, and they moved off together.
As Poirot watched them go, he saw her turn and give him a rapid glance. He caught a
momentary11 glimpse of swift anxiety—or was it, he wondered, fear?
Slowly Hercule Poirot walked to the other end of the terrace. He murmured to himself:
“As I have always said, me, I am the father confessor! And since women come to confession12
more frequently than men, it is women who have come to me this morning. Will there, I wonder,
be another very shortly?”
As he turned at the end of the terrace and paced back again, he knew that his question was
answered. Lydia Lee was coming towards him.
点击收听单词发音
1 superintendent | |
n.监督人,主管,总监;(英国)警务长 | |
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2 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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3 cadence | |
n.(说话声调的)抑扬顿挫 | |
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4 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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5 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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6 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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7 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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8 abominably | |
adv. 可恶地,可恨地,恶劣地 | |
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9 meekness | |
n.温顺,柔和 | |
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10 joyful | |
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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11 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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12 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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